And So Things Go, Chapter 24
Title- And So Things Go (24/34)
Author- jlrpuck
Rating - T
Pairing - Peter Carlisle/Rose Tyler
Disclaimer - Characters from Blackpool and Doctor Who are the property of the BBC, and are used with the greatest of love and respect; no profit is intended from the writing or sharing of this story.
Summary - The story of how Peter Carlisle moved to London to live with Rose Tyler.
Author’s Notes - Peter has escaped to Croy to think.
earlgreytea68 and chicklet73 have been ideal betas for this-supportive, diligent, and full of excellent ideas. lostwolfchats has been fabulous, as well, and equally as invaluable, ensuring that I didn’t ruin the Queen’s English…too badly. Any errors-grammatical, colloquial, or factual-are mine, and mine alone. And, on an artistic front-thank you to angelfireeast for the lovely banner at the top of the chapter.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Epilogue
The water was, unfortunately, far too cold for a swim, so Peter spent his early mornings at Croy on the bench near the shore, sipping his coffee, watching the western sky lighten as the sun rose behind him. The weather, while cold, had been clear for his two days there, and he’d been able to spend much of his time outdoors. He’d visited the glade once; he’d found his way in, hoping to be able to stretch out on a blanket and bask in the weak sunshine, but had found that the memories of him and Rose in that place, making love, had made it almost hurt to be there without her.
He decided to walk along the shore instead, finding his way down towards Culzean, or up to Ayr, relishing the cold air across his cheeks, pausing to sit on the sand and munch on an apple or bread and cheese before continuing on. Rose, he thought, wouldn’t have been much for the day-long rambles-and it wasn’t something he would have enjoyed in Kendal, say, or London-but it was something that he loved doing when he was at the cottage.
He also enjoyed skipping his morning shave, rolling out of bed, taking a hasty shower-or not, as the mood struck him-before wandering outside for the day.
Rose had observed during one of her visits there with him, that he became a different man when he was in Croy. “More…you,” she’d said cryptically. He supposed she was right; when he was in Croy, he was free to simply be Peter, to do what he wanted when he wanted, how he wanted.
He dined with Graeme his last night in Croy-Eirlys was in Inverness, visiting their daughter-and as usual he found the man’s bluntness bracing.
“When’re ye going to marry that woman of yours?” Graeme was leaning back in his seat after supper, a glass of whisky near his right hand.
“Never, if I can help it.” Peter was surprised Graeme had asked the question; the older man was more than familiar with his opinion of marriage.
“Can’t lose her, Peter. She’s been good for ye.”
“I don’t need to marry her, Graeme, to stay with her.”
“Not every marriage is like your first.” Graeme took a sip of his drink.
“I should hope not-the divorce rate would be astronomical.” Peter gazed down into his own tumbler, watching the light shift through the amber liquid. He really hoped Graeme would take the hint that the topic wasn’t open for discussion.
He did. “Why’re ye here midweek, Peter?”
“I’ve been offered a job in London.” It was the first time he’d said it out loud; he found it helped, actually, to share the fact.
“Doing?” Graeme seemed unsurprised, and Peter briefly wondered if Elias had passed through on his way to Glasgow-not that his former partner been told of the cottage. Still, Peter wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Elias had managed to suss the information out somehow.
“Police work.”
“Did ye accept?”
He took a mouthful of the whisky, savouring the flavour as he thought out his answer. “Not yet. I need to talk with Rose.”
“So ye’d move in with her, then?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve already talked about it?”
“Yes.” He took another draught from his glass.
“Why the reluctance, then?”
“I…I know the devil in Kendal. I may not like it, but I know it. I’ve no idea what I’d be in for in London.”
“You’d be with Rose,” Graeme stated, matter-of-factly.
“Yes. But what if I was miserable at work?”
Graeme laughed, a sound emanating from deep in his belly. “Peter, ye nitwit. Ye hate your job now-how could you be any more miserable?”
Peter took another sip of the whisky; Graeme reached for the bottle and added a pour to Peter’s glass.
“I’ve known you years, Peter, and I know you’ve a knack for talking yourself into or out of things, common sense be damned. Why change a lifetime habit? If you really want this, find a way to talk yourself into it, not out of it.”
“I don’t want to bugger things with Rose.”
“She’s not Loreen, Peter, and thank god for that.”
“Which is exactly why I don’t want to bugger things up.” He took another sip of the excellent liquor, savouring the slight burn as it slid down his throat. He could feel his head growing fuzzy, the effect of the whisky as well as of the Manhattan Graeme had whipped up before dinner.
“I reckon she’s a bit more willing to listen, Peter. And I’d kill to have a woman like her look at me the way she does you.”
Peter gave a half-smile. “Does Eirlys know that?”
“She’d understand, I think.”
Another sip. “I’ve no idea what I’ve got myself into, Graeme.” Wonder and awe at the circumstances in which he found himself once again washed through him. How had he been so bloody lucky?
They sat together in silence for several minutes, taking thoughtful sips from their glasses. Peter felt his limbs grow heavier, and leaned back in his chair.
“Your mum would be proud, y’know,” Graeme finally offered, breaking the silence.
Peter gave a mirthless laugh. “If she’d made it through the years of disappointment.”
“It’s all turned out alright in the end. Meg would’ve understood that.”
“We’ll never know.” Peter straightened, reaching for his glass, draining it. He coughed as he gulped down the fiery liquid. Graeme meant well, but Peter didn’t particularly care for theorizing on what his mum might or might not have thought; it filled him with regret, with anger that he’d never have the chance to find out if his neighbour’s assessment of her reaction would be right or wrong.
Graeme poured more whisky into Peter’s glass.
“Trying to get me drunk?” he asked sardonically.
“You need to relax, Peter. Stop taking yourself so bloody seriously.”
“Whisky’ll solve that, will it?”
“Temporarily. I have faith that your Rose will take care of it, long-term.”
“You’ve met her once, Graeme.” He wasn’t much sure he liked being told, repeatedly, how Rose would fix his life for him. He loved Rose, but she wasn’t a saint-she was just Rose, which was part of why he loved her.
“I’ve seen how you’ve been in these months since you started up with her,” the older man shot back.
“Work’s been less soul-sucking.”
“I’ve seen you smile more often, Peter-that’s not down to Williams being less of an arsehole.”
“Fine. Rose is my personal saviour, an angel sent from above to right the wrongs of my woeful life.”
Graeme shook his head good-naturedly. “She’s a woman, Peter-nothing more, nothing less.” He paused, taking another sip before he gave Peter a searching look. “So you’re going to move to London, then.”
As he always had done, Graeme had ignored the sarcasm, had cut straight through it to the heart of the matter. “Perhaps,” Peter allowed. Years of having hopes dashed made him reluctant to put voice to them, especially once they looked to be within reach.
“When will you next see your Rose?”
“Tomorrow. Have to fly down in the mornin’.”
Graeme looked at his watch. “How early?”
“Leave Kendal at noon.”
“Good thing, too-you’ll need to sober up a bit.” Graeme once more topped off Peter’s drink.
“You are trying to get me drunk!”
“You’re already there, Peter. Now tell me about this job they’re dangling in front of ye.”
Peter spent the next hour trying to slowly sip his whisky instead of downing it, telling Graeme what he could of the job he’d been offered. There wasn’t much to tell but-as he usually seemed to do-Graeme was able to draw out specific facts, paralleling the same questions Peter had had.
Why had they asked him? What would he do? Would he be partnered with Elias again? Would Williams let him go, or find a way to sink his request for transfer? And-the most challenging of all-what would Peter do if he put in for the request, and was denied in the end?
He’d spent the previous two days trying to bury just how much he actively disliked where he worked; he’d been able to do so for years now, after all. But the offer-well, the suggestion-had opened a door somewhere, had allowed the thoughts he’d buried for so long to start bubbling to the surface. The resentment of his superiors, tenuously hidden during the best of the times, was an almost physical sensation; his bitterness towards his co-workers and towards the specific organization for whom he worked made his stomach clench.
He didn’t think he’d be able to go back to Kendal, knowing that he had a way out. Elias had thrown him a lifeline; had McCoy known that, when he’d spoken with Peter two days previous?
Probably. The clever bastard.
Peter finally left Graeme’s in the wee hours of the morning, slowly walking the familiar path from the farmhouse to the cottage. The air was cool against his flushed cheeks, and he stopped, tilting his head back and peering up at the clear sky.
The moon was rising in the east, the light from the crescent washing out the stars nearest to it; to the west, though, the stars still shone bright, flickering against the rich darkness of the sky.
He still had a hard time imagining Rose, travelling up there; visiting planets surrounding suns which were so far away, they appeared to be no larger than the head of a pin. She’d told him some of the stories-about a world where the grass smelled of apples, of the one where the seas had frozen in an instant. She’d grown wistful each time, her eyes gazing into the past; he hadn’t failed to see how much she missed it, although she tried to hide it, giving him a smile, squeezing his hand, laughing as though it had all been a lark. How had Rose managed, going from the vastness he imagined over his head, to the confines of one planet, fixed in time and space? She always grew a bit quiet whenever the subject of the Doctor came up, whenever Mickey made a reference to her former life; would she ever fully accept being trapped where she was?
The wind gusted, whipping around him and cutting through his jumper, and he returned his attention to the path before him, to the walk back to the cottage. Rose might miss her former life, without question, but she also took great pains to tell him how much she enjoyed where she was now-how much she enjoyed being with him. He believed her, too; he’d come to trust her more than he had any other person since Annie. He just wished he could help her come to terms with the life from which she’d been pulled away.
The cottage was waiting for him, snug in the chilly night; he sighed as he closed the door behind him, stripping off his jumper in the sudden warmth offered by the shelter from the wind. He stopped in the kitchen to drink a glass of water; there was ibuprofen upstairs, and he poured a second glass of cool liquid to take with him so he could take the pills. He really didn’t want to wake up with a hangover tomorrow-not when he had to drive to Kendal, to fly to London, to see Rose.
He finally collapsed into bed, the world tipping slightly as he closed his eyes. He’d get into London, he’d go find Rose, they’d go to supper, and-at some point-he’d tell her about the job offer.
Simple.
~ - ~
His head was still pounding as he pulled into the carpark at the airfield the next morning; it had been far, far too long since he’d consumed that much whisky in a sitting. He looked a fright, unshaven, rumpled, his hair a mess from the hasty bath he’d taken that morning; Rose, he hoped, would forgive him his dishevelled state. He was able to sleep on the flight to London, at least, and by the time they floated in to the city airport for mooring, his headache had finally started to recede.
He had time before Rose might be done with work, and he stopped by her flat to drop his bag off, to put his tuxedo in the wardrobe and hope the wrinkles would hang out before “the dinner of the season.” His book had been left there almost two weeks ago-nearly finished, but not quite-and he grinned as he saw Rose had left a note sitting for him on top of it.
Should be done by six-thirty. Meet in Greenwich. Love you. R
A bit over two hours, then, until he had to be to her office. He’d met her there once before, the building tall and dark and-surprisingly-covered with glass; it looked like any office tower anywhere else in the country, and he’d chuckled at how mundane it really was. Torchwood LLC was even neatly engraved on the granite sign out front; and if the business that went on inside wasn’t quite what the public expected of Torchwood, well, so much the better.
He stared at his phone, turning it over in his hands before decisively punching in a local number. The phone was answered on the second ring.
“I didn’t expect a call from you.” Elias’s voice had the drawl to it that he hated so much.
“I’m in town and thought it might be polite to call.”
“This is Peter Carlisle, right?”
“Shut up.”
“Ah, and so it is.”
“Are you still in Glasgow?”
“No, actually-we returned last night. You’re welcome to stop by the office, you know. I’m sure Cunningham would love to chat you up.”
“I, ah, am not quite dressed for that.”
“Do you mean, Peter, that you’re not wearing dark trousers? And a white shirt?”
Peter glanced down. “No.”
“I have got to see this. Meet me at the Costa outside the Embankment Station in a half hour.”
“I’m in Southwark, Elias.”
“You can make that, Carlisle. Honestly.” Elias ended the call, his chuckle the last sound Peter heard over the line.
Peter stifled a sigh. So much for shaving.
He arrived at the Costa, book in hand, twenty minutes and a very brisk walk to Waterloo later. Elias was nowhere to be seen, and he ordered a coffee and claimed one of the rickety tables on the pavement. As he usually did when given the opportunity, he spent his time watching pedestrians stroll by, slowly sipping from the large mug he’d been given. Elias sauntered up ten minutes later, glancing inquisitively into Peter’s coffee mug.
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to know you’re late.”
“Work. You need more?” Elias gestured to Peter’s nearly-empty mug.
“Always.” Peter downed the rest of his coffee and handed the mug to Elias.
McCoy returned a few minutes later, bearing a newly-filled mug for Peter and a cuppa tea for himself. Elias had made the effort to add milk and sugar to his coffee, and Peter took a tentative sip as McCoy sat across from him.
“Close?” Elias asked.
“Good enough for government work. Thank you.”
“How are you, Peter?” McCoy peered across at Peter, his hands on either side of his cuppa.
“Bloody sick of people asking me how I am, thanks.”
Elias laughed. “Glad to hear it. Have you given any thought to what I said on Tuesday?”
“What a daft question. I’ve been thinking about it nearly non-stop, as I’m sure you expected I would.”
“And?”
“And, I need to talk to Rose.”
“This weekend?”
“Elias, I’ll think about it. More, that is. I’ll talk to Rose about it. And I’ll give the announcement a look when it is finally posted. That’s all I’m willing to promise you.”
Elias sat back, holding his tea cup and saucer in his hands, staring at Peter thoughtfully; Peter held his stare.
“Where the hell have you been since I saw you?”
“Hiding,” Peter replied, drily.
Elias’s lips twitched. “Not quite the look I was expecting when you said you weren’t dressed for meeting the boss. It makes you look…human.”
“As opposed to an automaton?”
“Something like that.”
“I’ll remember that. Maybe make it part of the uniform up at Kendal when I return. Perhaps little old ladies won’t smack me with their purses, and small children will cease to flee in terror when I approach.”
“I wish you luck with that plan.” Elias smiled into his teacup.
“Where should I be looking for this job?”
“The usual spot, although I’ll ring you to let you know if it…winds up elsewhere.”
“Will I need a secret handshake, then?”
“Not quite. After all, we have to make it available to all takers.”
“I’m sure,” Peter muttered as he took a sip of his coffee.
Elias changed the subject, telling Peter of Ruby, of the visit to Glasgow, and Peter was surprised to find nearly an hour had passed when he next looked at his watch. “Bugger!”
“Trouble?” Elias raised his eyebrows.
“I have to meet Rose at half-six.”
“Where?”
“Her office. In Greenwich.”
“You’d best get going then, Inspector.” Elias stood, the metal of the chair scraping against the pavement. “I’ll give you a call when the job goes up.”
Peter stood, extending his hand. “Give my regards to Ruby.”
Elias took the proffered hand, shaking it, before turning to walk up the hill towards his office. As Peter watched him walk away, he found that-all claims to the contrary-he truly wanted to work with the Met. To keep working with Elias, and Ruby, and all of the other people he’d met during the past month and a half.
~ - ~
Chapter 25